Sherlock 500 Prompts
by Honey Fujioka
Summary: 500 Prompts for BBC Sherlock. Some prompts will be smut. Johnlock.
1. Flawless

_A/N: This is based off MusicChibi's 500-word prompt competition, and because I'm a masochist (and friend's with her), I've decided to take it upon myself to do ALL 500. WITH FOUR DIFFERENT SERIES (technically three, but I'm doing two with one), and I may add more (series), so I'm just setting myself up for disaster. Oh well. Basically, there are 500 single-word prompts you can choose from, and there's a set word limit (minimum of 100, maximum of 1,000, &c.), and I've decided to do all 500, so wish me luck! I'm going to post these on the original site this competition is posted on, which is  
_

_asianfanfics .com/story/view/158312/write-like-the-wind-challenge-random-writing-writingchallenge-prompt_

_So, let's get to it with the Sherlock 500! (Sounds like a race!)_

1. **Flawless**

There was something about Sherlock's hands that made John think _flawless_, because if you really looked, they _were_ flawless. There were slight blemishes from multiple chemical spills and scars from straying knives and needles, but there was also milk-pale skin that stretched into long violinist's fingers, carefully manicured nails, and graceful movements that made John horribly jealous, causing him to stare with disdain at his own small, stubby-fingered hands.

Sherlock thought John's hands were the most flawless things he'd ever seen—in fact, _everything_ about John was flawless: his hands that held so much warmth, that helped others when sick or dying, that have pulled the trigger, pulled the trigger to protect _him_ of all people—he, who deserved no such thought and care; his small stature, which fit so _easily_ and _perfectly_ in comparison to his own much taller figure; his butter-wouldn't-melt appearance which led _many_ of their adversaries to think he was weak and worthless, both of which he most definitely was _not_; his jumpers, which, on any other person, would look so horrendously off-putting, but on John just looked _right_; and John, John, _John. _John was flawless, and Sherlock would look at his reflection in the mirrour every morning and think he was worthless compared to this man. And he would walk out, walk away from the needle and its chemical substance resting accusingly on the rim of the sink only because, though Sherlock was worthless, John still stayed, and that had to count for _something_, right?


	2. Escape

2. **Escape**

The only way John can escape is by walking. His therapist says it's a good thing for him to do, but he's usually too angry as he slams the flat door closed to think it's anything but _bad, terrible, horrid, _ and _so, so necessary._

Sometimes he forgets his walking stick, and it's usually about halfway through his walk that he realizes its absence.

The reason for this much-needed escape always has to do with Sherlock, and if John really thought about it, he'd do something about it, but again, he's too busy not trying to strangle the man and the world than to bother over something like that.

After escaping from the thresholds of madness and anger, he will sit on a park bench with his hands folded neatly in his lap, back standing erect against the backing of the wooden seat, and John knows that when he opens his eyes, Sherlock will be standing there, a slightly confused and guilty look present on his face, and John will forgive him, because that's what he does—escapes and forgives.

_A/N: Sorry, really short. The drabbles will get longer, so yeah. Wait a while, hm?_


	3. Imperceptible, The Father's Death

4. **Imperceptible**

Every year on April 2nd, John takes down the (wine) from the top shelf in his closet, hidden behind a box of mementos and a stitched blanket from his mother that he'd never used. He takes the wine in hand, blows the dust from the glass with a melancholy look on his face, and brings it downstairs when he knows Sherlock is out. He grabs the single wine glass that's survived the many experiments on the dishes (which he specifically put a DO NOT TOUCH sign on the glass to make sure of this) from the back cupboard and sits at the table before pouring the wine halfway up the glass. He stares at the wine through the glass for a few moments, reflecting the reason for this yearly behaviour, then lifts the glass and sips it until it's disappeared. After the first glass, the rest are filled to the brim, some spilling over the edge in his haste and drunkenness. He never remembers when the glass hits the floor, or when his face drops to rest against the wood of the table, but he does sometimes remember the cold touch against his face and the struggle to stand. He sometimes remembers the journey to his bedroom, sometimes not, but he always remembers when his head hits the pillow, the few, precious moments before sleep when the cold touch returns against his temple, the edges of his fringe; when it slides to the outer shell of his ear, then down to his neck, slowly warming from his over-heated skin. And always, _always_, does he remember the small, almost imperceptible sigh that comes from the slightly chapped lips against his temple.

Then, there is darkness.

And when John awakes, he goes downstairs, makes some tea, gets on with his life, and says nothing of this to Sherlock.

_A/N: Ew, crap ending. Oh well. They get better, I promise._


	4. Exceptionally

18. **Exceptionally**

"It's wonderful, absolutely _wonderful_ out there to-day!" John called out as he rushed into the room breathlessly, his face glowing with happiness.

"You were out with Stamford?" Sherlock asked, although Sherlock _knew_ John had been out with the man. He pulled the blanket over his frame more tightly, dragging his previously flexing arm under it in an attempt to hide it.

"Yes, and I was hoping you'd join us," John said, drawing nearer. Sherlock propped up his foot on the table, but it was too late. John saw the case and stared at it with an impassive frown before his face turned completely blank. Sherlock sat with trepidation, knuckles turning white with how fiercely he clutched the blanket to him, hoping John would not make too much of a scene.

Sherlock watched as John walked to his side and knelt to the floor, grabbing his knee to remove it from the table. Sherlock pressed his heel into the wood, and the fierce, angry look John shot him shocked him enough to lower his foot to the ground. Unreadable mask back in place, Sherlock quietly watched John place a calloused hand on the needle and lift it into the air, taking a sanitized napkin from the case to wipe it clean. A tingling sensation ran up Sherlock's spine as he continued his observation of John's methodical cleaning. Finished, John placed it into its groove in the case, doing the same to the bottle holding the chemical drug. He closed the case and walked to the bookcase, Sherlock's eyes following his figure as he placed the case on top of a stack of books. John cross the room and exited out their flat door, went down the stairs, and out the front door, Sherlock barely able to hear the soft closing of the wood.

Sherlock shivered, and he realized the feeling, the _emotion_, he had felt when watching John handle his drug case was…_fear_. He had been _terrified_ he'd disappointed John, and he had. He felt the guilt push much more deeply because of his friend's silence, and even with the adrenaline now racing through his veins and allowing his brain to work more efficiently, he covered his face with his hands, a single exceptionally quiet sob escaping his tightly clenched teeth.

Sherlock knew that John would forever hate him, and there was nothing Sherlock could do that would earn back that trust.

_A/N: I actually thought of this while watching the Granada Sherlock Holmes series, specifically The Devil's Foot episode, when Jeremy Brett, as Holmes, was using his needle, and Watson comes in as Holmes raises his foot onto the table to hide it, but Watson sees it anyways and just leaves. I thought that, to make Holmes stop, he should have done just what I've written here, so I set it to the BBC version and did it. :)_


	5. Thirsty

7. **Thirsty**

Sherlock can't help but think that maybe his plan hadn't been _quite_ as thought out as it should have been. It wasn't _entirely_ his fault, though—things seemed to go differently when it came to John. And he supposed he really couldn't blame the doctour for their current situation, but damn if he wasn't going to pin this on him anyways. Sherlock had been caught by surprise, that's all. It seemed John was doing that more frequently lately—surprising him. Take this instance for example:

It is in this instance that John is not only _hovering_ over Sherlock, but actually _on top_ of Sherlock. His hands are kneading his shoulders, and his nose is pressed lovingly against the juncture of his jaw, little breathy sounds coming from him, and Sherlock can't help liking the position a little; and while Sherlock wants to think about _how exactly_ he got into this (now quite pleasing) position, John is continuously distracting him with all of the _heat heat heat_, and Sherlock is cold, but warming, and it really is nice, _very_ nice. All Sherlock can think about (and there's a literal handful to think about) is _John's hands are on my shoulders, John is licking me (do I like that? …Apparently yes), John keeps gripping my thighs with his knees, friction friction friction, John, John, Jo—_

"What are you thinking about?" John asks, nosing the (apparently very sensitive) skin beneath his ear, causing Sherlock to emit a light growl, which surprises him, but doesn't surprise him really.

_I'm thinking about how warm your hands are (roughly __37°C__, and are they normally this warm, I never noticed), and how soft your jumper is (it really is soft—cotton? No, hemp), and I am most pointedly _not_ thinking about how nice that feels (it really _does_ feel nice, but I'm not going to say that), _and Sherlock wants to say this, but his brain is just over-stimulated, but John seems to hear, because he gives a light chuckle, causing Sherlock's hands to tighten their grip on John's hips (Sherlock can't remember putting them there) and his chin, for some reason, to automatically raise when John nips the juncture of his collar bones, and before he can utter a startled, "What?", a long, drawn-out moan escapes him first, and his hands fist the bottom of John's jumper, and John just laughs another breathy chuckle that makes Sherlock's spine tingle, and oh—_oh_..._That's _a surprise, a _pleasant_ one, but very much so a surprise, his leg lifting like that—yes, _very _surprising; and is John—John is about to _kiss_ him, and he's waiting, and he's waiting, and there—

"Oh dear!"

And the magic is broken. John breaks away from Sherlock, face blazing, and Sherlock frowns as Mrs. Hudson is ushered away, chuckling under her breath. After she's left, the air between them is awkward. John shuffles his feet, and Sherlock's face is impassive as he stares out the window, mind zooming faster and faster and—

"I'm sorry."

—it stops.

"I shouldn't have-…I don't know why I…"

Sherlock tries to look at John, but John won't look at him. If Sherlock stretches out his arm, he could reach him, could physically drag John back to him, over him, but Sherlock is afraid that John has changed his mind, and he can see the slow clinking of things realigning themselves in John's mind, and Sherlock doesn't want this because John is beginning to not want this, and why, why, _why_—

"I'm going to make some tea."

—and John rushes out of the room before Sherlock can raise a hand to stop him, which he does, but it's too late. John is gone, and Sherlock is alone, Sherlock is _always_ alone, and the room is a little colder now—not just a little, a lot now, and all Sherlock wants is for John to rush back out, exclaiming, "Forget the tea," and bring Sherlock back into his arms, but Sherlock isn't delusional. He knows this won't happen, and so just frowns, frowns enough that lines gather on his forehead, enough that his hands are gripping each other so tightly the knuckles are turning white, and why, _why_ was he so stupid to think that, maybe, something might've—

"Sherlock, I—"

—and Sherlock's head jerks up to see John standing with his hands at his sides, clenching and unclenching themselves, and Sherlock is waiting, and waiting, and—and John rushes forward quickly, fast enough to cause Sherlock to blink rapidly when John is kneeling in front of him, hands hesitating over the fabric covering his thighs. John looks at him with hesitancy, the side of his mouth quirking in nervousness, and Sherlock thinks that enough is enough, that John needs to be _closer_, so much closer, and he brings his hand to the back of John's neck and pulls John towards him, and John comes, and Sherlock is _thirsty_, so _thirsty_, and John's mouth is on his mouth finally, _finally, _and it feels _wonderful, amazing, _unrealistic, and Sherlock smiles against John's mouth, and John smiles back, and it's…

It's _wonderful_.

_A/N: So yeah, *ahem*…I wrote this in my student aide class, haha. I don't know what this was supposed to be, really…I think I just wanted a sort-of smut (and it was just Sherlock orgasming in his head about over-stimulations and stuff, and a kiss at the end), so… Yeah. Will have __actual__ smut in later drabbles, so… :)_


End file.
